A poem in progress

Nearly everything

Formerly known;

believed in, once

I saw the world.

Not anymore

white. Or black.

All just reflected

shades of gray. (Or

grey, depending

how you see it.)

I saw,

momentarily, sideways

in your eyes,

death reflecting upon 
the living

and I knew you

had seen

the world is not:

not round— not even oblong—

and certainly not flat.
Any way you look at it.

All the time

it changes shape.

And it is no wonder

anymore, 

why. So many
don't care to look
in the first place.